


This feeling is not a placeholder

by horusporus



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Depression, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Slice of Life, Steve Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-16 01:17:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2250456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horusporus/pseuds/horusporus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even after all these months, they still lived separately</p>
            </blockquote>





	This feeling is not a placeholder

a/n: this is part of a thing I've been thinking about on and off. The establishing premise was this: Bucky Barnes is still recovering, but mostly functional. Steve Rogers was never really treated, but also functional. Except today.

* * *

 

 

Even after all these months, they still lived separately. Bucky had a spare toothbrush, towels and a guest drawer that were practically his in Steve’s place; at his place he even made sure to keep a shelf stacked with art supplies.

Steve maybe helped himself to that once or twice. It’d been a while now - that second time had went well enough in Bucky’s opinion, but Steve hadn’t touched them since.

He hadn’t really made a habit to stay long enough or often enough at Bucky’s place.

Bucky, on the other hand, loved Steve’s apartment. It’s a cozy studio, probably prohibitively expensive considering the address (just like his, though that was only a guess, because Clint Barton wasn’t exactly the most exacting of landlords), and clearly decorated out of an Ikea catalogue, but that was where Steve Rogers lived, and so Bucky Barnes loved it.

They still kept their respective addresses though, because sometimes war veterans on the wrong side of twenty or ninety (take your pick) need their space. This was what Bucky told himself.

And to Natasha, Sam, Clint, and even Tony at one point. The most dubious-looking one was actually Stark, surprisingly enough, but he’d been dubious about Steve moving out of the Tower ever since the day Steve walked out with a duffle bag back into his apartment that he had left behind last year at Stark’s insistence. They had a fight about it. It was awkward; it was during a team meeting, and Bucky was only there to provide intel. He knew Nat tried to find out what was that all about but Tony and Steve had always been good at deflection, and whatever they had disagreed on they seemed to at least agree it was no one’s business but their own. Sam seemed to be disproportionately resigned about it, but at the time Bucky was still feeling about 95% apologetic that their first meeting had involved bodily harm and him ripping Sam’s wings off, even if Sam said he was cool about it, and so the chasm between his curiosity and his sense of the appropriate seemed insurmountable and even if Sam was now his training and lunching buddy, that ship had sailed as far as Bucky’s concerned.

By now anyway he wouldn’t have needed to ask anymore.

Wouldn’t it be easier if the problem was simply a comical one about miscommunicated expectations? He mentioned it to Dr Kazinsky (who, being his therapist, was the first person he expressed his rationalisation to), who nodded, and suggested some scripts that he could practice for when the time he wanted to broach the subject with Steve.

The scripts had variations of the same theme, and the theme was cold feet. In one sense that was true.

In another sense, that was such an understatement Bucky would laugh right now in the dark of Steve’s apartment if he didn’t think Steve’s supersoldier senses would catch it and come to the wrong conclusion.

Right now he was just glad that they were in sync enough in this fucked up cycle that he could be the functional one today.

“Steve? Stevie?” he called out softly, even though he knew full well where Steve was: under that mountain of fleece on the couch facing the tv that was switched on to the History Channel. That was playing some show revolving around the very historical fact of alien abductions.

Bucky made quick calculations about a few things: the last time he physically saw Steve (a week ago), the pile of dishes in the sink (three; but there were cans of soup and ravioli lying about half-eaten), the laundry (minimal, but the whole apartment unit was gently giving out a scent of the mouldering unwashed) and the distance of the remote control from that lump of Steve Rogers on the couch (not that far but not recently disturbed either). The only way he could have managed to get away with this was because of how Avengers business and SHIELD business had conspired to keep Steve and Nat out of heading out to Wakanda with him, Sam, and Janet, and Tony was currently stuck in South Korea. And somewhere during that, Steve had returned to New York before Bucky, and despite what they promised to each other, _what they agreed_ , the black dog paid Steve a visit, and he let it in.

“Honey,” Bucky said. He couldn’t help himself, it was the first thing that came to mind as he knelt in front of where he could roughly guess where Steve’s head was, and there it was: that full-body flinch.

Bucky swallowed, and went to the kitchen to make some tea. It was a habit they picked up in Europe and from the Brits - having a kettle was something they had bonded over accidentally, once, in the Tower when Bucky was hunting for a kettle because he had an itch like ants crawling under his skin and he would really really like to make a cup of tea now. He didn’t think he would ever forget the smile Steve had at the time.

Right now though, as he was waiting for the kettle to boil, what he would really really like to do is to talk to someone. The kettle whistled, and Bucky hurried for the mug and the teabags. He also took out two of their bigger mugs they had started to use for soups and stews. He added a can of ravioli (the last, he saw) to the soup mix. It was apparently gross to the people in their lives, but mass produced food had gone a long way since he and Steve had last been normal, and this concoction was delicious.

“I made ravioli soup,” he said as nonchalantly as possible, and sat on the smaller couches perpendicular to the sofa Steve was on, and stared blindly at the solemn testimony of an alien civilisation expert playing on television. He must be making a mint nowadays post-Battle of New York, Bucky thought vaguely, sipping at his ravioli.

Eventually movement from the sofa. Steve didn’t so much sat up as lying exhaustedly sideways and partially upright, but his hold on his mug (the tea; the soup stayed on the tray)  was steady.

Another dramatic reenactment; another alien abduction. Steve sighed, and before he could say anything, before he could apologise, Bucky asked, “can I, can I sit with you?”

Steve blinked slowly. “Um, I-- I guess, I don’t know, I think I haven’t showered yet since--” he laughed a little here, Steve Rogers had lost track of time, what a riot. “I’m pretty ripe, Bucky,” he admitted.

“Well, pal,” Bucky drawled, in full effect, “in case you haven’t noticed, I’m bringing here with me the very latest Eau de Tropical Jungle here. Let’s do a science experiment, let’s have your stink make friends with mine, get married, have little stinky germ brats, and maybe bottle it to keep out the paps outside.”

“Who could resist an offer like that,” Steve parried softly. But he did drag his fleece more towards him, to make room on the couch.

Bucky did one better and dumped it all on the floor, after he set down Steve’s mug, and ostentatiously rubbed himself all over a squirming six-foot-something blond built like a brick shithouse.

“Hey there sweetheart,” he said in the lull, and the look on Steve’s heart was like knives deep in his heart, in his gut, in his lungs, and all Bucky could do was kiss that vulnerable-looking mouth.

They settled against each other, but before Bucky could get comfortable, Steve gave a sound of disgust and actually stretched out to the coffee table to get to the remote. Eventually they settled on a movie. It’d got robots, and Bucky couldn’t help but be interested in it, even if he could make neither heads nor tails about what was exactly happening, though there was plenty of shouting over something clearly important.

Steve had settled himself against Bucky’s shoulder, but no lower. He took hold of Bucky’s hand, not the nearest one, which was over his shoulder, but the metal one. Bucky braced himself. He’d got rage issues, according to everyone, but with Steve his reserves of patience were endless and limitless, and if he was the praying sort, he’d pray for a bit more to spare.

“I’m sorry Bucky.”

Even after all these months, they still lived separately, and this was why.

Bucky kissed Steve’s forehead, and asked gently, “have you called Minnie?”. Dr Minnie Lim, that was the name of Steve’s head doctor, as highly recommended and as supremely discreet as Bucky’s Dr Kazinsky, a member of the small, elite but probably growing band of therapists in the greater New York area and the East Coast that offer counsel to the ever-growing band of fucked up heroes nominally referred to as the Avengers.

Steve shook his head. “It’s nothing,” he said. Bucky only held Steve tighter and said nothing. After a while Steve said hesitantly again, “it’s nothing.”

Steve kept playing with his metal hand throughout and now was tracing the grooves leading up the wrist. It tickled, in a way reminiscent to how his skin would register it, but sufficiently different enough that he hadn’t yet managed to describe it to Tony’s satisfaction. “It’s just stuff, in my head,” Steve continued, still focused on Bucky’s hand. “I’m just being selfish,” he sighed, and made to move like he was getting up, getting back to being functional, to being Steve Rogers again.

Bucky tightened his hold. He was glad he was better by the time he got over himself enough to start this, but he wished he could be… _more_ better. “You’re not selfish,” he said firmly, so firmly he was practically hissing in Steve’s face. Steve’s face pinked, the blush of shame, and Bucky would say this a thousand times more if that was what it took, in lieu of actually being the well-adjusted human Steve needed, the one who had it together enough so that Steve couldn’t make a list in that convoluted head of his and conclude that whatever agony Steve  was in, it couldn’t possibly compare to Bucky’s, or Nat’s or Clint’s or Tony’s or even Sam’s, and so Steve should just keep quiet and not be so selfish about hurting. Selfish.

Bucky wished his Steve would be more selfish. But his Steve was shifting from embarrassment to mortification, as Bucky’s words were digested, and of course Steve wasn’t listening to what was said, but who said it, and Bucky could only guess what was going on in his mind, but it would be an extremely well-founded guess because Steve had shared with him a couple of times, when he could get Steve to open up about it, even if what followed would usually be a profound shame that he and Minnie were trying very hard to break Steve out of. Steve was mortified that Bucky was saying it. Bucky who endured a second life as a brainwashed assassin, Bucky who didn’t peacefully sleep 70-odd years away, Bucky who was determinedly piecing all part of his life together. Steve had no right.

“No, no, baby,” he whispered urgently. “You’re not, I swear to you you’re not. You’re feeling low, and that’s all right sweetheart, it’s fine, you know it’s fine.” Steve was clamming up, hardening into shame and distance, but that was not allowed, that was not in their agreement. Bucky held on harder.

“Bucky, please.”

“Steven Grant Rogers,” Bucky was thinking quickly, “would you move in with me?”

That shocked Steve into the opposite direction. He blinked rapidly, his breath stuck in his chest. “What?”

“Would you move in with me?” Bucky repeated.

Steve gave a helpless laugh, small and surprised, sweeter for not being deprecating in the least, “Now?”

“Well, maybe after you take that shower,” Bucky teased.

“Bucky… I--”

“Don’t think too hard,” Bucky said, his metal hand tightening around the fingers on his palm, “yes or no.”

“I just don’t--”

“Yes or no, Stevie, come on. Don’t you want to wake up with this stupid mug?”

“I already do that three mornings out of five, you know,” Steve said, mouth quirking.

“Okay, can I move in with you?”

This somehow shocked Steve even more. “Bucky-- why?”

“Why not? You live here, for one. Big plus in my books,” Bucky said.

Steve took a look around the apartment. He had the look of someone who just woken up, and didn’t like what he saw. It was awkward but Bucky managed to loop his arm further around Steve and placed a finger on his cheek to make him face Bucky again.

“Sure, you’ve got hygiene issues,” Bucky said lightly, “but it’s a good thing I like tidying up after you.”

Steve’s eyes were still dim and solemn. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea, Buck.”

“Why not?”

Steve gave a little shake, hunching further. “I don’t think I’m very good company, that’s all.”

“Oh that’s good, because I’ve got my shitty days and I thought between the two of us, we could split the difference.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Beats me - I’ve got 70 years of brainwashing to deal with, don’t ask me about linguistics,” Bucky said, playing up to his gallery of one. Steve chuckled a bit, the perfunctory laughter of the long-suffering boyfriend. It was brief, and then there was silence. Bucky was content to let it stew, as long as Steve was still there in his arms, and not retreating to somewhere Bucky couldn’t follow.

“I’ll just be in your way,” Steve said, trailing off. Bucky waited for more, but that was it, that was apparently the killer argument that Steve thought would sway him.

_If you would let me, I would take care of you every day we have together_ , were the words Bucky held back with force behind his teeth. He probably looked feral, if Steve would just look, but Steve would not, could not, would probaby shy away from the declaration, would feel inconvenienced by the commitment--

No, right now it’s not about him. He’ll keep it until later. Until Dr Kazinsky, or Sam, or whenever.

“I was kinda hoping that you’d stay in my way,” Bucky confessed instead. It’d got a flavour of what he wanted to say, shaded by a different kind of need, but nonetheless true. “We’re in this together, remember? Till the end of the line.”

Steve didn’t say anything. He did lift up the hand that’s gripping his and kissed it. There were so many things Bucky loved about Steve Rogers, and that he never saw his metal arm as anything different was one of them.

“It’s just,” Steve murmured, and interrupted himself. “Why?”

Bucky broke. There’s not a place he would not follow for this man, even if it took so long for them to get here. “Because I love you, dummy,” he said, through a throat that was suddenly too tight. “You know my head isn’t screwed on right at the best of times, but it’s been true for a very long time. I love you when you were a skinny punk, and I love you now that you’re a bigger punk, and I loved you when I couldn’t even remember your name or mine, so excuse me if I disagree if you somehow think that it’s all a waste. Don’t you dare say that I could do better Stevie - you’d been my golden ticket for the longest time.”

Bucky felt out of breath and Steve looked similarly winded. Every goddamn time, and Steve still looked like he could hardly believe it. Bucky remembered enough to recall Steve’s mullish pride, and he remembered enough to recall the bluster and the thorniness as well. When did it turn into poison that kept him on the ground like he’d been felled by a house? Bucky’s fall had been a part of it, Bucky knew, even if Steve would never admit to it, just like he wouldn’t admit to all the rest of it -- Bucky’s return, Bucky’s disappearance, his reappearance and recovery and those necessary months when Bucky couldn’t even stand the sight of Steve Rogers. Steve would insist it was not his fault, and it’s true, it was objectively true. Or maybe not, but he had to believe it was true or it’d be a huddle of two next watching some barely competent movie about robots.

Steve had been grieving and somewhere in that grief it turned sour, and Bucky was here now, but sometimes he would think that he was too late. Or not enough.

But Steve would look at him, like he did now, and Bucky knew the two of them were wrapped too tightly in each other - there’s no way out for them both, this was a ship they would sink in together.

“So,” he said, stuttering a little, “your place or mine?” He could feel his pulse picking up speed, but he willed it down with all the training that was his legacy.

Steve looked a little uncertain. A lot uncertain actually. In that huddle of blanket with only his ruffled head and a bare shoulder peeking out, he looked both very young and very old. It’s those eyes. Large bruised-looking eyes that looked too weighed down with sleep or exhaustion. Bucky could only hope he’d understand his impulsive question was made in the heat of carefully considered moments. Was he always this sort of person, who would look before leaping, looking again and again? He might not be the one to rush into fights, but he remembered a boy who would rush into help, into friendships.

He would rush into anything with Steve, but Steve could rush into anything without Bucky. If he needed a touchstone, then so be it. If it needed to be more than Bucky’s things lying strewn about his apartment, then Bucky could do that.

“Won’t you miss living near Clint?” Steve asked.

Bucky couldn’t help his chuckle. “If that’s you trying to prove I’m right, it’s working.”

“He can’t be that bad.”

“Well, you try it on for size,” Bucky said, the automatic quip taking on another layer of cajoling.

“I--” Steve paused. “I guess it is closer to the Tower.”

Bucky nodded agreeably even as he braced himself.

Steve inched closer. Physical touch always meant more to him, to them, and they’ve both missed being touched. He pursed his lips a little, creased his eyebrows.

It’s not ideal and they both each would have a long way to go. One day maybe Bucky would get less loud at nights, like he was compensating for the silence of the past decades; one day maybe Steve would try for being less quiet in the interstitials of their life, like trying to make up for the cacophony of being Captain America. But maybe--

“Could we maybe bring my couch over?” Steve asked. “It’s just yours is-- yours is a wreck Barnes. It’s been a wreck ever since we found it in that alley and I’m not wallowing on something that’s possibly have seen entire civilisations of vermin.”

Bucky laughed, not keeping it down. Yes, he’d place an Ikea catalogue in every place they go to just so Steve could continue deciding on their furniture if he had to.

 

  
\---- END -----

  
  



End file.
